Magical Mystery Tour
by Mr Sinister
Summary: Angel enjoys a day in the sun with his lover Psylocke after regaining his feathered wings.


**__**

Magical Mystery Tour

The air is cold this morning, I can feel it. I can feel the chill wind snap at the point of every long feather, at the back of my neck, and on my bare feet. Glancing at my watch, I can see that it is around eight in the morning, but I'm not tired; not now. The sensation of flying with my old wings is too wonderful to ever tire me out. My techno-organic wings could never carry me to the heavens like these ones can. No, those were functional things. There was no beauty in them. 

There was no _life._

Speaking of which…

I can see, on the ground below, the rest of the team beginning to emerge from the mansion. Hank, with his swathes of blue fur glistening in the dewy dawn, is actually making a rare effort to catch some sunlight rather than retreating to his laboratory. I can see Bobby practising making snow cones for everybody, even though it's not even breakfast time for most of them. I dive towards him, determined to play a joke on him for once. I'm feeling in the mood for a laugh right now. I hook my arms under his and carry him upward with great sweeps of my mighty wings, creating a downdraft that even Logan has to blink at.

"Hey, Wings, what you playing at?" Drake says, batting at me with his fists, but not hard enough to make me drop him.

"You'll see," I say, and carry him over towards the pool, where he glares at me with his wide blue eyes and says "You wouldn't." 

I grin at him and say "Wouldn't I?" 

And then I drop him. The splash as he hits the water is monumental. Drake's dressing gown, Def Leppard tee-shirt and Mickey Mouse boxer shorts are barely covering his modesty as he manages to flounder to the side of the pool and scramble out, looking like a particularly ragged wet cat as he slumps on a deck lounger. He gives me a look that, had he been Scott, would have punched a neat hole through the centre of my head and dropped me like a stone. 

__

I'll get you for this, Warren Worthington, is the general gist of what I can see in his face.

I grin at him. "Score one for me," I say. "Serves you right for putting ice in my coffee all these years."

Drake shakes his fist at me and shouts "Come back here, you lousy, no-good, spoiled rich-kid! I'll get you for this, Warren! Why I oughtta…" 

"You'll have to catch me first, Junior," I tell him, and spiral upwards, my wings altering their position ever so slightly, in order to capture the faintest updrafts, to slingshot me further into the sky that I love. The pigeons roosting on the roof of the mansion are not particularly pleased to be disturbed, but right at this moment, I'm too happy to notice. As they scatter in a cloud of downy feathers and annoyed coos, I flit among them, happy to be one of them again, and not some artificial, cold creature that flew only because he was told to, not because he _wanted_ to. 

The Archangel of Death is dead, long live Warren Worthington.

__

Hello, Warren, says a voice in my head. _Having fun? _It brings a smile to my face instantly.

"Hello, Betsy," I reply. "And yes, I am having fun, thank you. Why do you ask?"

__

Bobby tells me that you dumped him in the pool just now. What do you have to say for yourself? I can detect a hint of laughter in the words, indicating that she feels the same way I do, but is just putting on a show for Bobby's benefit.

"What can I say?" I reply. "Guilty as charged. Drake was just too good a target to miss."

__

Well, he asked me to tell you that you're a stupid poopy-head, and the next time you do something like that, he's going to freeze your underwear so solid that every time you pee you'll fill the bowl with popsicles.

I can't stop the smile forming on my face. Even in the face of a humiliating dunking, Drake is still a joker to the last. Desperate to get the last gag in. Typical Bobby – he'll be class clown till his dying day, I swear.

"Drake said that?" 

__

Well, he was a bit more… descriptive, but that's basically it, yes. There is a small pause, and then she says _Warren, could you come down now? I want to have breakfast with you, not by myself. Is that okay?_

I laugh. "With Drake gunning for me? Is it safe?"

There is a flash of amusement on the other end. _Don't worry, Warren, I'll protect you. Now come down – I want to eat my toast._

Seeing that I can't really argue for any more flight-time, I alight on the soft green grass outside the French windows and enter the kitchen, where Betsy is sat on a stool, a plate stacked with slices of strawberry jelly-smeared toast on the table in front of her. She waves to me and sends the telepathic equivalent of a good morning kiss my way. I walk over to her and give her a kiss on the forehead.

"Morning, gorgeous," I say, and I mean it. Even just out of bed, wrapped in a silk kimono and bunny slippers, she takes my breath away. Her body is a knockout, of course – that goes without saying – but what makes her _her_ is more beautiful than any of that. She reaches up and strokes my hair, before turning back to her toast. I enfold her in my arms and say, "How are you today?"

"Good so far," she says, with a hint of playfulness in her voice. "It'd be even better if you let me eat my breakfast." She offers me a mouthful of toast that drips butter and jelly all over the floor. I think after that, it'd be rude not to accept it, so I gingerly accept the messy mouthful. It's good – really good; in fact, now I'm jealous that she hasn't made some for me. Betsy laughs and licks her fingers.

"Why, Warren, I think you're just the tiniest bit envious," she says, as if that's some big shock. She offers me the plate and indicates that I take a few slices. "Go on, sweetheart. You're obviously undernourished – I can see your poor, starving little ribs from here. You take what you like."

It's nice to see Betsy smiling for once – I've become all too used to seeing her listless and unhappy in recent months. To see her actually _smiling_ – to see her face radiating joy and happiness, instead of sadness and despair – is wonderful. I smile back and scoop a few slices of toast onto a spare plate before sitting down on a stool opposite me. Betsy pushes a carton of orange juice towards me, along with a glass.

"Here you are. Can't have you dying of thirst, now, can we?" she says, taking a sip from her own tall glass. I reach out and tuck a stray lock of her purple hair behind her ear, as if righting a flaw in the Mona Lisa.

"You're too good to me," I say. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"You let me have all of the duvet," she replies. "That alone is worth the toast. And you left the toilet seat down, which is why you can have the orange juice. You see, Warren, it's all a matter of give and take." I grin widely. This is the woman I fell in love with, all right.

"Is that so?" I ask. "Then what do I have to do to get that full-length poster of Carmen Electra on the door of the bathroom?"

Betsy purses her lips. "Wallpaper the Great Wall of China," she replies without hesitation. "And then I'd only start to _consider_ it."

"Spoilsport," I say. "Then explain to me why you get to have a Fabio calendar on your side of the bed, while I have to put up with one with Garfield on it on mine?"

"Woman's prerogative," she replies, slicing a piece of toast in half elegantly and taking small dignified bites. "You must realise this, Warren – women rule the world. You men just live in it." 

"You don't have to tell me that, Betsy." I bite into an apple from the fruit bowl in the centre of the table, having finished all my pieces of toast. "I know enough about women to know that."

"Mr Worthington, you haven't even scratched the surface," she says, resting her chin on her right hand, and touching the tip of my nose with the index finger of the other. "You haven't even scratched the surface."

"Well… could you help me learn more?" I enquire almost matter-of-factly.

"Not without serious surgery and a few sustained doses of my psychic knife," she replies. "Face it, Warren, you're a man. Men are ignorant. That's just the way of things." She stays silent for a moment, and then smiles at me, even the red mark on her face not detracting from her beauty as she does so. "That's not to say I don't love you for it, though – with you, it's kind of endearing."

"Gee, thanks, Betts," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "I'll try to remember that when I'm dragging you back to our cave and clubbing Logan over the head with a rock, shall I?"

She smiles again. "Ooh, so romantic. How _did_ I manage to resist your charms for so long?"

"I think it must have been my old costume. Blue and purple aren't my colours, are they?"

"Probably not. Though I have to say that blue and yellow likely weren't exactly a fantastic combination on you either. I don't know how Scott makes it work."

This is so silly, but I feel wonderful. I haven't felt this good in years. Just talking and laughing with Betsy feels so natural. 

__

It does, doesn't it? I feel Betsy's telepathic voice stroking my mind tenderly. _I haven't felt this way for a long time either, I must admit._ She reaches out and strokes my face, running her fingers down my cheek, as is her wont. _I love you, Warren Worthington. Always remember that._

"I love you too, Betts," I tell her, and I mean it. How could I not? Intimacy like this doesn't come along every five minutes. I haven't felt this close to a woman before in my life. Candy and Charlotte were wonderful, beautiful people, and I still love them dearly, but in our short time together, Betsy has taken part of my soul. Our minds have touched, have intermingled until I wasn't sure where I ended and Betsy began, and how do you top that? I'm not sure. "With all my heart."

She smiles, her eyes sparkling. "I know." Then, she looks out the window at the bright sunshine, and gestures towards it with a hand. "It's a lovely day outside, Warren. Couldn't we go flying for a little while?" I grin and flex my wings gladly.

"Sure," I say. "Where would you like to go?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says. "Why don't we just… fly, and see where we end up?"

"Your wish is my command." I scoop her up in my arms, and feel her locking her hands around my waist.

"Don't you dare drop me," she says sternly, but with a smile on her face.

"Have a little faith," I tell her, and I walk outside, feeling the dew between my toes, and take off into the sky. It takes us a little while to get up high, but we get there, and Betsy is unable to stifle a gasp at the view. Despite us having taken countless flights together, I know that she must be still a little unused to being up this high. Her reaction fills me with joy – she is taking this experience as a gift, a wonderful gift, as I do every time I spread my wings. It would be very easy for her to become inured to this, I know – I did, until the moment I lost my wings. Then I realised what I had lost, and could never have again – which is why I'm so pleased to see her not making the same mistake I did. As we fly I feel her plant a playful kiss on my lips, and I return it, embracing her more tightly as we soar towards the unblemished blue of the open sky. We kiss for a long time, until she moves her lips away from mine and says "Do you remember the time we flew into town, and I took you to that sushi bar I like?"

"Yes," I reply, "and I don't want to go back. They made us sing 'Like a Virgin' in front of the whole bar." She laughs, music sounding in the emptiness of the sky.

"Oh, come on, Warren, let's go back this evening. You still have your image inducer, don't you?"

"I'm not even going to consider that," I say, but with a smile on my face. "I have a singing voice that even cats hate. I swear I heard them yowling outside."

"That was me trying to hit the high notes," she says with a tinkle of laughter. "Anyway, people don't expect you to be able to sing – it's just a matter of doing your best! You can do that, can't you?"

I can feel myself relenting. "Oh, all right, Betsy, but just because you know where my sock drawer is. I don't want to have to wear an odd pair to my board meeting on Thursday, all right? And I especially don't want to have to wear my emergency Hong Kong Phooey ones – I'd be a laughing stock." Betsy smiles.

"Oh, come on, Warren, you know you're my number one super guy," she says. "Why not let everybody else know it, too?" That logic is hard to argue with, so, not wishing to prolong the disagreement, I relent. Kind of.

"All right," I say, tiredly. "I'll wear them to the bar. But if they ask me to sing anything by Billy Ray Cyrus, I'm leaving."


End file.
